Page 72 of The Neighbor Wager

Deanna laughs as I pay. “What a copycat.”

No. I want to taste what’s on your lips.

What is wrong with me? I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to get her to admit love is real.

“You invented English Breakfast?” I ask.

“I perfected it.” Her raspberry lips press into a coy smile. Her eyes brighten. Tough-as-nails, soft-as-silk Deanna Huntington.

Silk isn’t soft. Silk is slick. Silk is sexy.

Don’t pretend it’s about softness when it’s about something else entirely.

Deanna is sexy.

I’m not denying that.

And I’m not giving in to it.

This isn’t fate or destiny or anything big and beautiful.

It’s the two of us, settling our wager.

I wait for the drinks and join Deanna at her seat, in the corner.

“Shouldn’t we get back?” I ask.

“After we fix the tea.” She looks out the big wide window and watches a teenage couple stroll down the street. They’re exactly the stereotype of a California couple.

Two tan, toned blondes in board shorts and Hurley tank tops. They’re even wearing matching blue checkered Vans. (Started in Anaheim. Fern is obsessed with their new HQ and the checkered lining painting around the top of the building.)

“Five minutes to brew it. Then we add milk.” She surveys the table. “Almond milk work for you?”

“Sure.”

“Are you always easygoing?” Her intense eyes find mine.

“I want to see your idea of perfection.”

“So, under normal circumstances, you’d throw the almond milk in the barista’s face and say, ‘I told you oat milk, dammit.’”

“Damn. And I thought I suppressed that TikTok,” I say.

Her laugh is easy, comfortable. Like she’s here because she wants to be here, not because she’s trying to keep me from Lexi. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you think Ida will mind waiting a few extra minutes? If I tell her it’s for this.” Deanna smiles, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a chocolate bar. “She got me into it.”

Dark chocolate and tea. Grandma’s favorite afternoon snack. A wave of nostalgia hits me all at once.

This is home.

The drink, the place, the people.

I hate that it’s home, but it’s home nonetheless.

“Aren’t you worried it will melt at the beach?” I ask.

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